


Warp & Weft

by ghostxforest (nusch)



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fiber Arts, Fluff and Smut, Knitting, M/M, Some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-17 21:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13667286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nusch/pseuds/ghostxforest
Summary: Thor loves the family store and all their customers, but he's never fallen in love with a customer before...





	1. Flirting 101

“Well, I’m relieved to see I’m not the only one rushing in before class starts,” she sighed and chuckled as she handed over her credit card. Thor discreetly glanced up at the line of women behind her as Sif grouped her purchases, a top of the line wood crochet hook, two skeins of silk merino yarn in aubergine, and a package of darning needles to be used immediately for the “Crochet 101: How to Crochet a Scarf” class.

“No worries,” he smiled. “We’re always ready for this last minute rush.” Sif finished the last bit of the pleasantries, as Thor turned to help the next crochet student. “Hi. Let’s get you ready for your class,” he chirped.

He and Sif wrote up receipts, calculated totals, made change, ran credit cards, and complimented yarn selections like a well-oiled machine until he finally looked up and found…no one waiting. He settled in for a quick breather after the whirlwind of hooks, skeins, stitch gauges and markers, and other sundry supplies. From the corner of the teaching nook his mother’s voice rose softly as she introduced the crochet instructor and thanked the class for joining them this afternoon. “It is absolutely wonderful to welcome so many new faces,” he heard her say. He had recognized two women who had signed up for the class, both sewers who were ready to add another craft to their repertoire, but unfamiliar faces dominated the group of crochet newbies. How many would become regular crocheters, knitters, return customers was key. Thor worried about growing the customer base because Frigga didn’t. True, the store continued to thrive year after year, over the years adding a web presence with a blog that offered tips and projects and an online shop full of patterns and supplies, plus the ever growing roster of classes, all buoyed by Frigga’s mythical reputation in the crafting community. She was a veritable crafting goddess. But Thor couldn’t deny the genuine swell of relief he felt anytime an unknown and eager face walked through the front door.

“They say they’re sorry for rushing in last minute. But they’re lying. They’re not the tiniest bit sorry,” Sif grumbled under her breath. Thor smirked and rolled his eyes. She continued to quietly rant. “I mean, the website clearly says to come 15-30 minutes early to get supplies for the class. But no. Why follow the instructions? Instructions that are on the website and in the confirmation email by the way! I know because I send all of them out!” She snorted like a frustrated bull. “And now the cubby holes are all messed up along the yarn wall because they pawed through everything.” She folded her arms and glared at no one in particular.

“Sheesh, Sif. Someone might think the customers annoy you or something. Why don’t you take a break, cool off, and I’ll tidy up. Maybe you should eat something. You sound hangry.” 

“Hmph. I’ll be outside with the dye pots if you need me.” She wasted no time disappearing through the back doors leaving Thor alone at the counter, the whisper of the yarn ball winder in the distance as the crochet students took turns. His mother’s voice drifted over the chatter every so often as she crocheted alongside the group of beginners, offering advice, encouragement, anecdotes. He grinned as she “made a mistake” and had to start over, the instructor talking the class through how to recognize and fix a problem. 

He pulled on his hoodie, chilled now that the flurry of activity had ended and started to make his way around the store, straightening up displays and misplaced merchandise as went. He made mental notes of what needed immediate restocking and what they should inventory for next week’s orders. He tackled the lightly disturbed sections of the store first, the craft accessories, the storage systems, the books and patterns, the sewing notions and quilting supplies, before he turned his attention to the yarn wall. Carrying an armful of skeins and hanks of yarns in different weights and colors, some dyed by Sif behind the shop, he turned the corner of the wall display and discovered a man sitting crossed-legged on the floor, tucked into the corner where the cubbies met the front window of the store.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was over here.”

“Yeah. I snuck in during the pre-class mob scene. But it’s cool now that it’s quieted down.” He didn’t look up from the four small pyramids of yarn arranged on the floor in front of him. He picked up a creamy ivory merino/cashmere hank from one pile, shifted it from one elegant long-fingered hand to the other, seeming to consider its very physical existence, before he placed it on top of two skeins of a deep blue yarn in two different weights. He exhaled loudly, fluttering the cascade of glossy black hair that obscured his face. Thor held his breath as the man finally looked up, revealing bright green eyes in a handsome, luminously pale face.

“Well, hello there,” he said to Thor with a deliciously wry smile. “It’s good to see I’m not the only man with a yarn problem.”

Thor chuckled, delivered his most winning grin, and gently bounced his armful of yarn against his pecs. “Oh, I work here. Just returning these to their yarn holes.” He nodded at the wall.

“Work here? Interesting.” The man whispered as he blatantly checked out Thor.

“The family business,” Thor clarified.

“More interesting,” the man raised an eyebrow.

“And what’s your excuse? Not that you need any. I’m happy to sell you all of that yarn. It should make a very interesting avant-garde sweater…?”

The man laughed, unfolded his legs and stood to his full height, nearly eye to eye with Thor. “Most definitely not a sweater. But avant-garde is accurate. It’s all for an art project.” He bent down to scoop up the yarn piles giving Thor a quite generous view of a very nice ass.

“If you’re ready, I can check you out,” he nodded towards the front counter.

“Oh. I am ready for you to check me out.” They grinned at each other for what felt like a full minute.

“Um. Ok. Right this way.” They weaved their way past project displays and tool shelves up to the front counter. At the counter, Thor unceremoniously dumped his miscellaneous yarn to the side before turning back to the man. A ripple of laughter drifted over from the crochet students.

“Do you ever teach classes?” the man asked.

“Sometimes. Not often. I prefer working with customers to teaching.”

“And I’m sure your family likes having a pretty face at the front.”

“Wow,” Thor smiled. “Am I blushing?”

“Sadly, no. I’ll have to up my game.”

“Well. You’ve picked some of my favorite yarns. This one in particular,” he held a hank of steel grey with a slight shimmer “would really bring out your eyes. Seems a shame to use it all for an art work.”

“Ahhh. Well that depends on the art work.”

“Interesting,” Thor grinned. The man winked in reply.

“So what do I need to do to get a discount?” the man waggled an eyebrow.

“Become a regular,” Thor stamped red lightning bolts on 8 little balls of yarn that ringed the edge of a frequent shopper card. “You only need two more balls for your first discount.” A loaded silence hung between them. “I, um, didn’t mean it that way.” They burst into laughter. For a brief moment a palpable hush fell over the teaching nook before the chatter continued.

The man took the card and slipped it into his wallet. “As if I need anymore incentive than the excellent service.”

Thor handed the man his change and a large paper tote of yarn, never breaking eye contact. “Come back and tell me how the art project is going.”

“I will. When I come back for those balls.” 

*****

Frigga waved goodbye to the last student and joined Thor at the counter. “I’ve been thinking. I will add that beginning weaving class to the schedule again. I do miss teaching it. Let’s see if it finds more interest this year. Interest waxes and interest wanes, you know.”

Thor nodded. “I like that plan. I might even try to take it again. Maybe I’ll have more interest now. More than when you tried to force me to love weaving when I was 12.”

“Oh, don’t do me any favors now, goldilocks.” She rolled her eyes at Thor’s bright, teasing smile.   
“So who was that you were just talking to?”

Thor paused, looked at the door. “I don’t know actually. Just a new customer.”  
“Really?” Frigga asked with surprise. “The way you were talking, dare I say flirting, I thought he was a new guy.”  
“Mom, I flirt with everyone. How do you think we stay in business?”  
“Oh, stop.”  
“Oh, stop yourself. Who do you think I learned it from?”   
She shot him the family smirk and shook her head as she walked out to the dye shed. “Well, I failed as a teacher if you didn’t even get a name.”

Thor looked over to the door again.


	2. Not lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night out full of secret errands and art, brings Thor face to face with the mystery customer again.

White lights swayed overhead, strung from lamp posts on either side of the street, an unlikely canopy in this once sketchy neighborhood. A sure sign of gentrification, Thor thought, as he turned the corner into a crowd gathered outside an overtly hip coffee place, a pit stop before more First Friday gallery visits probably. Across the street, silver mylar balloons arched from lamp posts to the white-washed brick facade of one of the many converted warehouse spaces. They spelt out hashtags: #permanent, #heavy, #grounded. Hm, pretty but uninspired. A cluster of people disappeared into a nondescript front door. He could skip whatever gallery supported that work. 

He gave a quick look around before ducking into an alleyway he knew frequently sheltered a tent or two, a small homeless encampment for a city which boasted veritable tent villages under freeway overpasses and bridges, but more than enough to break Thor’s heart. There were four tents tonight. The desperate community was growing. Confident he was alone, or at least unnoticed, he pulled two scarves out of his tote bag, knotted them around a “No parking” sign post, and made sure his handwritten notes were securely attached and visible: not lost - please take me if you need me. Then he bustled back out to the street, making a mental note to knit up more hats, a poncho, blanket, maybe even some socks.

A couple blocks over he followed a glittering, blinking, reflective arrow down the dark path that skirted the side of an industrial building long-since past its former commercial prime, but well into its second act as a gallery and studio complex. The familiar chattering cacophony of art opening attendees grew as he approached the entrance. With a turn, he crossed the threshhold into the complex’s central courtyard where silhouetted figures stood around a firepit in groups of twos, threes, red plastic tumblers in their hands. 

“Thor, you made it,” Volstagg appeared at his side. He planted a hearty slap on Thor’s shoulder and thrust a tumbler of beer in his hands.

“Of course, I did. I wouldn’t miss Sif’s opening.”

“Well, she would kill you if you did. So you really had no choice. Hilde bowed out but said she would pick us all up if we couldn’t handle calling a Lyft.”

“You know you don’t deserve her, right?” They navigated their way into the gallery where there was more space since no one ever really came to these things to see the art. Thor scanned the smaller crowd for Sif, taking in some of the work as he did. He recognized a few pieces, paintings in glitter, meticulous and ethereal, by a former classmate of Sif’s who was starting to make a name for herself among collectors; a few soft sculptures out of rags and pleather, the work of a stalwart fiber arts scenester who he loathed, though this work wasn’t particularly bad.

“Thor, you made it,” Sif popped up before him, a little breathless, a smudge of glitter glistened on her collarbone, a subtle sign of a certain painter’s attention.

“Why do people keep saying that with such surprise? Of course, I made it Sif. Of course, I’m here.”

“I wasn’t accusing. Just noting. Let’s go get more beer. It feels like I’ve been stuck in here all day.” She took his full red tumbler and handed him her empty in return.

“You go. I want to do a quick circle in here, see your stuff at the very least. Meet you near the keg.”

“Alright then. Let’s go Volstagg! To the beer!” Volstagg echoed her charge as they disappeared into the central garden’s growing crowd.

Glitter paintings - check. Soft sculptures - check. Some fairly impressive quilt work, banners for protests, political, right on target, really fine pieces by a name he didn’t recognize - check. Sif’s incredible dyed landscapes came next. She perfectly captured the contrasting pastels and earth tones of the industrial coast line to the south. The colorful pools shimmered atop clouds of gossamer silk. Stunning. Of course, he was biased, but he obviously wasn’t alone in this assessment. All four had red dots next to their title cards, signs that they had already sold. 

Finally, he came to a collection of photographs and a wall-mounted iPad that played a video on a loop, all showing an array of full head masks, like balaclavas but crocheted in an intoxicating combination of colors. Mannequin heads on pedestals wore two of the masks in the photographs, allowing one to appreciate the crochet work which rivaled some of the best Thor had ever seen, even his mother would be duly impressed. He stood dumbfounded, at a complete loss for words, mesmerized by the masks in the video with fringe that shot out from the wearer’s face menacingly as they snapped their head to and fro just so. In the next segment, tendrils burst away from the center of another masked face, a veritable yarn explosion before dissolving into another mask with a vibrating curtain of yarn, darker at the tips than the roots. In the photographs, accomplished work on their own merit, the model looked out from soft pink angora crocheted into a fuzzy full-face cozy; from a shaggy blue wookie-like mop of yarn; from a thickly knotted yarn helmet. Some had mouth holes. Some had eye holes. Some had both. Some had no anatomically specific holes, but a strategically more open weave of fiber over the face. One had a long yarn mane that cascaded down the models shoulders and out of the image. Another had a colorful mushroomy bloom of fiber erupting from the model’s neck.

Transformative. Ebullient. Sinister. Joyful. Confounding. Provocative. Fucking sexy.

“And does the grey bring out my eyes as you expected?”

Thor pivoted towards the purr in his left ear and came face to face with the gorgeous mystery customer from weeks ago. He turned back to the gallery wall for a quick scan of the artist information, then back to the man at his side.

“Hello, Loki. Your work is phenomenal.”

“Well. Thank you, uh…?”

“Thor.”

“Thank you, Thor.” Loki took his hand for not quite a handshake, held a beat longer than most would think socially appropriate with a stranger, before finally sliding his hand ever so slowly from Thor’s, a sensuous caress and release. “Are you a First Fridays tourist? Or part of the fiber art scene?”

“Neither? I mean, I guess, sort of part of the scene because of the store. I know quite of few of the artist’s. My friend Sif is in this show. The dye work on the other side. You might have seen her at the store.” He nodded first to her work then out to the crowded courtyard where she and Volstagg were nowhere to be seen. 

“Ah, yes. She did look oddly familiar, now that you mention it.”

Thor stared at Loki, drank him in. The green eyes. The tumble of black hair. Turned back to the work as Loki watched him with equal interest.

“Would you like to try one on? Your blue eyes would be electric peering out from one of these. We could let your hair flow out the bottom. Or tuck it up discreetly. So many options.” Loki was talking more to himself than to Thor. Which was good. Because maybe then he wouldn’t notice how Thor’s heart raced at the tempting suggestion, at the thought of slipping into one of these intricate masks, then Loki’s camera clicking away…wait.

“Are you the photographer, too?” 

“Yes.”

“Would I be your first?”

“Model?” Loki grinned, cocky amusement in his eyes. 

“Yes. Your first model,” Thor chuckled. Surely blushing now, he worried.

“No. But we could pretend you were,” Loki answered with a wink. Thor felt heat sweep up over his cheeks. “Ah. Finally. I knew I could get that blush.”

“Thor!” Saved by the bell, he thought, as he turned towards the courtyard where Sif stood with Volstagg and other friends, waving him over to join the group.

“Join my friends and me for the finest of keg beverages?”

“Well, if it’s the finest how could I refuse?”

Tumblers in hand, they joined Thor’s friends. He made introductions all around and superficially followed the pleasantries between Sif and Loki about each other’s work, the other artists, the gallery, but Loki’s mere existence was distracting. Thor tried to follow the conversation as it continued, the bits of gossip, the exchange of information on best art supplies, best film developers, best website designers. But he could not stop thinking about Loki’s offer to put Thor in his masks. He felt Loki’s gaze on him from time to time, as if he could read Thor’s mind, knew he was lost in thoughts of sitting for Loki’s camera.

Finally, Thor’s friends lost in their own conversation, he leaned into Loki. “I’d like that,” he said. “To be your model. To wear your amazing masks.” 

Loki smiled. “I would like that, too. And I know just the pieces I want you try.”

“Sooooo? Maybe we could talk about it over dinner?”

Loki moved closer, lessened the gap between them. “Did you just ask me out? On a date?” He whispered.

Thor chuckled. “Yeah. I did. Would you like to go out on a date with me?”

“Oh, I would. Very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki's art work is directly inspired by the amazing work of @threadstories on Instagram. Someone is actually making masks like these and they blow my mind.


End file.
